X&Y
by EmilyFuckingFitch
Summary: Root hears it before she feels it. (The release of the safety, the press of the trigger, the boom of the gun.) And the last thought that ran through her mind was that she was finally coming home.


_"I meant skies all empty aching blue. I meant years. I meant all of them with you."_

 _(Kate Clanchy - Patagonia)_

* * *

Root hears it before she feels it.

(The release of the safety, the press of the trigger, the boom of the gun.)

And the last thought that ran through her mind was that she was finally coming home.

* * *

She remembers, once. A conversation they had months ago. They were drunk, entirely too drunk, and they were both lying on the floor of Root's safehouse. Samaritan was online, and their lives were both on a ticking clock. His operatives would find them soon enough. It was only a matter of time.

But Shaw was there with her, her body warm and heavy on top of her, their faces flushed. In that room, in that moment, Root felt like they had all the time in the world.

"What does it feel like?" Shaw asks in the still of the silence, her breath hot on her sternum.

Root laughs, feels Shaw frowning against her skin. "You're going to have to be more specific than that," she says patronizingly.

At that, Shaw sits up, and looks directly at her. The serious look on her face quells Root's chuckles.

"To care about something that can kill you," Shaw clarifies.

Root tilts her head. She stares at her for a moment, gauging what Shaw wants to hear from her. Her eyes are dark, but her expression, earnest. She doesn't know if she wants to hear the truth or the lie.

In the end, she opts for neither.

"I don't know," Root shrugs, before smirking. "I could ask you the same thing."

Shaw cocks an eyebrow. "You think I feel the same way?" She scoffs, rolling off of her. "Please."

"All I know is," Root says, running her fingers down her spine. "I'm not alone."

* * *

They kissed, once.

They kissed once and it wasn't enough.

It will never be enough.

* * *

Some nights are more bearable than others. Some nights, she forgets.

But tonight isn't one of them. Tonight, she remembers it all.

She fiddles with the safety of Shaw's USP—her USP now.

It'd be so simple. Quick. Just one shot. One clean shot and she'd be with Shaw again.

In the empty apartment, she downs another shot of vodka and slams the glass down on the table before standing up, the gun in hand. She walks over to the drawer and opens it. She takes out a full clip, inserts it into the gun.

It would be so simple, and death would be a merciful reprieve.

She cocks the gun, and with a trembling hand, raises it to her head, her finger against the trigger.

"You left," Root says to no one in particular, and after a moment, seethes, "You're gone and I'm still here and—"

Root inhales shakily, her entire body vibrating with anger, her knees wobbling.

"It was always supposed to be you who lived," Root bites, releasing the safety of her gun. Her bottom lip is quivering, and her tears are running down her cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away.

"I was supposed to make sure of that," Root says, her voice cracking. She stays standing like that, for how long, she doesn't know, but eventually her body gives in from the strain, and her knees buckle.

She crumples onto the floor.

* * *

Her life returns to its routine, for the most part. She saves lives—irrelevant numbers. On her good days, she prolongs their inevitable, on her bad days, they die on her watch. But none of it matters. Not really. There's no point of fighting this war, at least for her—there's nothing left worth fighting for.

But she does it anyway because The Machine tells her to. Most of the time, she works alone. She prefers it this way. Every time she works with Reese, she's only reminded of who's supposed to be beside her, but isn't.

* * *

Home was this:

The way Shaw looked at Root like they could be something someday. The way Shaw said her name, with a sigh of inevitability, a smirk of a promise, a smile of a secret kept only between them. How her eyes softened, like there would've come a day where both of them could finally stay, together and not apart.

Home was what took her thirty-three years to find.

And home was what took her ten seconds to lose.

* * *

 _In loving memory of Sameen Shaw._

 _"Second chances are overrated anyway."_

 _November 21, 1982 – January 5, 2015._

* * *

They ask her to speak at Shaw's funeral, and she doesn't know why. Out of the three of them, she's the wrong person to be chosen for this.

But she does it anyway, and what falls out of her mouth is ungraceful and unapologetic and entirely too bitter:

"What's there left to say? I loved her, and now she's gone."

She's met with still silence, but their downcast gaze is much more telling. Shaw meant more to Root than she did to anyone else, that much they understand.

And when they lower the casket, when they bury Shaw, it feels an awful like they're burying her.

(Perhaps this is a mourning for her own death, too.)

* * *

They clear her a few weeks later. It was easy enough. Pretending. She's pretended all her life, living lives that weren't hers. This was no different.

She could play this person for Finch and Reese and The Machine. She could be the person who hadn't just lost the person she loved, the kind of person who wasn't the reason why their loved one died.

She could be this person if it meant getting near a gun again. She could do this. Deceive them.

After all, that's why The Machine chose her.

She's exceptional at lies.

* * *

Here are the things she left unsaid:

You shouldn't have taken the bullet for me.

You should've ran.

You should've stayed alive.

I'm sorry.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

* * *

"It wasn't his fault."

Root takes a deep breath, sinks deeper into her bed. "Not now, Harold."

He ignores her request, walking towards her. "Think about how much blood Shaw had already lost when she got to you."

Root shakes her head, refusing to listen to him. "If Reese had gotten there in ti—"

"She'd already lost thirty-five percent of her blood volume, Ms. Groves," he cuts off. "The Machine told me. Even if Reese had arrived in under a minute, by the time she made it to the car she would've di—"

"Stop," Root shouts, covering her ears.

"Ms. Groves," Finch says sternly, trying to pull her hands away from her ears. "You have to remember what happened."

"I can't," Root screams. "I won't."

"We were simply too late," Finch says, raising his voice. He shakes her wrists, tries to get her attention. "You have to remember, Ms. Groves," he insists. "You have to remember what really happened."

Root shakes her head adamantly, and says brokenly:

"If I let myself remember, I'd be wishing to forget."

* * *

Sometimes she catches herself replaying that day in her head. Over, and over, and over. And what she keeps telling herself is this:

It was supposed to be a simple plan.

Root was supposed to locate Shaw and get out. Protect her and run. Reese was supposed to fend off the Samaritan operatives and get to them. All she had to do was keep Shaw safe for five minutes, long enough for them to make it outside. Shaw wasn't supposed to be escaping on her own, she wasn't supposed to stand in front of her, she wasn't supposed to get—

It was supposed to be a simple plan. Shaw wasn't supposed to get hurt.

She was supposed to live.

* * *

"You're up," Reese notes.

"I am." Root gives him a sarcastic smile. "Sad, really. I thought that fourth dose of morphine would've done it for me." She jingles the cuffs around her wrists, the metal clanking against the bars on both sides of the bed. "But I'm sure this will prevent me from another episode, won't it?"

"Root," he says softly, guilt heavy in his voice.

"Don't," she commands. "Don't start."

"I couldn't get there fast enough. I'm so—"

"Does this make a difference? Apologizing?" Root asks bitterly. "Because it won't bring her back," she spits out. Reese looks like he doesn't know what to say, and Root smiles darkly, taking this opportunity to add, "You couldn't save your wife. You couldn't save Carter. And now you couldn't save Shaw." She tilts her head tauntingly. "Pity."

Reese looks away, then, swallowing hard. They stay like that for a while, until finally, he gathers the courage to face Root again.

When he looks back up at her, he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Reese wants to say something, Root knows, but can't seem to bring himself to.

She couldn't care less.

"I'm sorry," is what he ends up saying before leaving the room again in a hurry. When his footsteps echo up the stairs, when the only sound in the room is her heart monitor and her breathing, she lays back down on the bed and closes her eyes, wishing that Shaw was in her place, and she, in Shaw's.

* * *

She doesn't remember exactly how she got out of that building. She thinks Reese and Fusco came six minutes after Shaw closed her eyes. She thinks they tried to pull her up. She thinks her grip on Shaw tightened. She thinks she stayed there for a while, cradling her body in her arms, rocking them both back and forth. She thinks someone kept repeating that everything was going to be okay—maybe it was Reese. Or maybe it was her. She vaguely remembers of a needle pressed into her skin—a barbiturate, she assumes, from the way her body went slack and how her eyes felt heavy shortly after.

But, she remembers this: the last thing she saw was Shaw's face, the last thing she did was squeeze Shaw's hand, and the last thought that ran through her mind was how they were supposed to have more time than this.

That's what she remembers vividly.

* * *

They used to tell her that, there will come a moment in her life when she'll be faced with death. And in that moment, she'll see her life flash before her eyes. In that moment, she'll feel a sense of peace.

What they told her was a lie.

(In that moment, she saw a future she was promised, but never got.

In that moment, all she felt was an unrelenting sense of grief.)

* * *

"Sameen," Root panics, wraps her arms around Shaw's waist as she crumples against her.

"Told you I'd find you," Shaw smiles. There's a gash in the front of her hospital gown, streaked with red—something that looks too much like blood. Root wants to hope that none of it is Shaw's, but from the way she's breathing, slow and shallow against her neck, she knows that it isn't true.

As gently as she can, Root moves Shaw's body slightly, cranes her own neck to try and find the exit wound from the bullet.

There is none. The back of her gown is clean.

"Reese," Root calls into her commlink, tries to keep the fear out of her voice. She kneels down and lays Shaw's head gingerly across her thighs. "How soon can you be here?" Root asks, keeping pressure on her wound to prevent her from bleeding out.

Shaw hisses in pain, her entire body going rigid.

"Five minutes at most. Is Shaw okay?"

Root looks back to up Shaw's face. Her skin's too pale, her forehead's dripping in sweat, her eyes out of focus. Even though Shaw tries to mask it all with a smile, Root knows better.

They're running out of time.

"You need to hurry," is all Root says before turning the commlink off. She feels Shaw's body suddenly slacken, her eyes tempting to droop close.

"Stay awake," Root insists, running through her hand through Shaw's hair.

Shaw blinks slowly at her, letting out a laugh. "You think I don't want to?"

"Try harder," Root begs. "Reese will be here soon, and we'll get out." She wipes Shaw's forehead with the back of her hand. "We'll get out," Root promises, though she feels moisture pool in her eyes. She skims her index finger on Shaw's skin. Her forehead, her eyebrow, down to her cheeks, traces the outline of her lips.

Shaw stops her hand, her grip loose on her fingers. Her breathing is much too labored, and even as her vision becomes blurry from the wetness in her eyes, she can tell that Shaw's eyes look tired.

This is the woman who Root had sworn to herself she'd protect. This is the woman who she had killed dozens of men for. This is the woman she had promised she'd find again, and now she's finally here, in her arms.

Dying.

Root purses her lips, and then: "I lost you once. I can't lose you again."

"Root," Shaw exhales heavily. "I can't—"

Root shakes her head, and looks away. She breathes in deeply, tries to keep the tears at bay. She will not cry. Not here. Not now.

"I just got you back," Root says shakily, wipes away the unshed tears from her eyes before looking back down at Shaw. She shifts her hand to hold Shaw's properly, and in that moment, she gives her a broken smile. "Don't leave me again."

It's then that Shaw's eyes soften, full of regret and pity and something else Root couldn't quite put a name to.

"I think my number's up, Root," Shaw murmurs apologetically, her eyes threatening to droop close again.

"Stay awake," Root insists again. Stay here, she wants to add. Stay with me.

"You were right," Shaw smiles. "We were good at this together." She squeezes her hand once, then lets go.

It feels too much like a goodbye.

Root shakes her head fervently, her tears streaking down her face. This isn't the end. Not hers, not theirs. This isn't how it's going to end.

She won't let it be.

"Don't go," Root pleads, her voice cracking. She tries to shake her to keep her awake, but Shaw's eyes close anyway.

She leans down, presses a soft kiss on Shaw's forehead.

"Don't go," Root mumbles again against her skin. "Please."


End file.
